Lo Scambio
by CognacGirl-CG
Summary: AU'ish Sarkney. Sort of begins in S1 "The Coup" and veers off in my direction after that. Written for a Soap Opera Cliche challenge, so cliche(s) included. WIP
1. Prologue

**Title means**: "The Switch"

Written for The Multifandom Soap Opera Cliche Challenge started by **storydivagirl** on LiveJournal. Cliche I chose was "Evil Twin" cliche.

**Rated**: Hard R, almost NC-17 for language and sexual situations.

**AU** - After Prologue, begins in S1 "The Coup" and veers off in almost my own direction from there. Since it is AU, some characters/things that have happened in S2 and S3 might show up.

I usually post fics when I'm done, but this one is still in the works. (Many more chapters to go) It's due soon, so I wanted to try to motivate myself. And I swear to all that is holy that I used the word "proclivity" months before Sark used it on the show. Just check my LJ for verification. ;)

Lo Scambio

Prologue

_Early 90s_

There was just something about a good ole' randy fuck that made him want to smile. A slow moving, full penetration, excessively vocal, hot and heavy romp that left him feeling empty and full at the same time.

Some nights it was almost what he lived for.

Like any of his species, a top-rate lay could match that of a rich and delectably warm cognac as it slid down the throat, a languorous lounge in his extra-hot penthouse hot tub – high speed jets pulsing against just the right muscles. Or even a lengthy jaunt on a topless beach with the hot sun beating down on him while surrounded by supple breasts a plenty.

Too bad it would take all of the last three to get him to even hint at even a smirk, since that good fuck didn't seem to be in the cards tonight.

He looked down at the willowy limbs splayed awkwardly on the bed as he banged into her from behind, and rolled his eyes in exasperation when he heard her muffled squeal.

This woman. She was sloppy and just…too much.

Too much hair – blonde and curled and teased – making her look like one of those prize show poodles he'd seen on television. Too utterly drunk, after she'd imbibed countless white wine spritzers – it was a fucking shame that these American women had such proclivity for a wicked tasting cocktail – and a strong highball for a nightcap.

Worst of all, she was just too loose. His cock felt like it was sloshing in and out of lubricant filled roadway – no, a tunnel – that had seen one too many vehicles. No useful friction inside her to help get him off.

Which did not, at all, reflect on his size or his virility. But the comparison to major highway did almost make him smile.

"Oh God," Ms. Autobahn slurred, her cheek flush against the sheet as he kept slamming into her almost brutally. "Say my name again, Robert. I love the sugary way it just rolls off your tongue."

His fingers pinched into the pale skin of her hips at her request. Bloody Americans.

Of course, he gave her no satisfaction of a reply – he'd never – but how droll of her to ask him to perform party tricks at a time like this. Especially when all he really wanted to do was pick her up by the scruff of her neck and throw her out of her own room.

Instead, he thrust into her harder. A loud _smack_ echoed in the room as his hips hit her ass like his hand was just itching to do, resulting in her poodle head ramming right into the plain wood headboard. Small consolation, but he did smile.

"Sorry love," he gritted out between his teeth, trying his hardest not to laugh. Her moan seemed to be her apology, and him saying her name now was ancient history.

Good. He'd forgotten it hours ago anyhow.

This would be the last time he'd pick up a stranger, foreigner specifically, in a bar. No more drunks who resembled different breeds of dogs or cats, and were barely able to stimulate him. No more, _'Say my name you foreign man'_, like Irish speak was a forgotten language. There had to be another way to slake this need, another way to find a warm body to pound his daily frustrations and concerns and anger into.

Growing more bothered by the second – and unfortunately not in that good way – he repeated the three-word mantra he'd created for times like these. Times when he had to pretty much jackhammer his way to at least a moment's pleasure, with a woman who could wilt an oyster filled he-man.

Just come already. Just come already.

"Robert!" she cried out in a mixture of pleasure and pain. Just. Come. Already.

She did. Heavy wailing grated on his ears as loose insides barely grasped hold of his hard cock in a pitiful attempt to milk an orgasm out of him. But that wasn't even a passing thought or the point of the mantra. No matter how hard he tried or what he thought about with this woman, _he_ just couldn't let himself go.

Just. Come. Each word punctuated a thrust.

He nearly gave up, was just about ready to toss his hat in without completion, but at the last moment he felt that welcoming warm tingle, that telling itch, generate first in his balls and then up to the base of his shaft.

Finally.

Gratification dawned on the horizon. One straining thrust inched him closer, the next that much more, another, this time harder and faster, and then the crescendo. Sweet deliverance.

He collapsed on top of her back, gasping for air, giving less than a shit if she could breathe with her face smashed into the mattress.

"Whoa," he blew out, completely spent.

He was still young. Barely twenty-two. It just shouldn't take that much effort to feel good.

"Mmmm…Robert," the woman said in a gravelly voice, her bottom softly swishing against his softening dick. "It is _so_ true what they say about Italian men."

Italian? Confusion drew his brows together, but his mind was drifting much too slowly back down from Satisfaction Land and was still too tired to form any sort of response. Okay, maybe he could have, but he didn't think it worth the exertion.

Only seconds passed before a thought struck him. Surely, the woman didn't think just because he had an accent and they were in Italy that he was Italian.

"I just love your country," she murmured.

Dear God, she did. How… utterly pathetic.

Sated as best the situation was going to offer, he untangled her legs and arms from around his and rolled off her to the far side of the bed. Reaching down to a small pile of clothes for his black slacks – his fitted black t-shirt still covering his torso – he fought the urge to sigh dejectedly.

Where was the elation? The soft humming in his end nerves he could always count on? He looked back at the bed, watching this woman twist and purr like a contented cat, and squelched a pang of envy.

Well, didn't that just chafe?

Caring not for his roughness, he hurriedly stuffed his feet into the rumpled pants, all the while wondering if this was how it felt to hit bottom.

A twinge of old pain shot from his shoulder down to his fingertips as he zipped up, leaving a light tingle in its wake. It was a reminder, an old one that had him rethinking his careless thought. This wasn't bottom. Not even close.

He'd been there, maybe even lower. Five years now he'd been steadily working his way back up.

"Robert?" Ms. Poodle asked, turning over and revealing herself in the moonlit room. She wasn't _that_ bad looking, for his sanity they never were, but a beauty queen she was not.

"My flight leaves early, Connie."

"Carlee," she corrected with a hint of perturbation in her voice.

"Whatever," he replied, dismissing her real name just as he was just about to dismiss her. "It's been… great."

He had to bite his tongue to keep the scathing comment concerning her promiscuity from leaving his mouth – double standard be damned.

"But…" she sputtered, pulling the sheet up to cover her bare breasts. Good show, he laughed, like modesty would color her different in his eyes now. She tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth, looking more foolish than seductive, probably expecting him to at least kiss her goodbye.

Well, wasn't that too fucking bad. He was disappointed in this entire affair, why shouldn't she be left feeling the same way? Inserting his hands into his pockets, fisting his car keys, he promptly walked to the door.

"Thanks for this, Carla," he called out over his shoulder as he opened her hotel room door to leave. "Really."

He stepped into the posh hallway and heard the brat scream out in frustration as the door clicked shut behind him. Silly chit. Her antics were as laughable as her lay, so absurd in fact that he found himself chuckling less than a minute later when he heard her scream for a second time through the thin walls.

"It's _Car-lee_!"

Right. Like it really mattered. Like "Robert" wouldn't forget about "Carlee, the prized poodle" come tomorrow night and the next warm body he'd stumble upon in an attempt to lose himself again.

A star-laden night ensconced him as he emerged from the woman's hotel. The summer Roman air – a warm saltwater tinged breeze wafting in from the ocean – fondly caressed his senses, welcoming him back to its comforting embrace after months of absence.

As he began down the sidewalk, he heard his phone shrill. Oh bother, just what he needed. More needless yapping to make his first night of vacation that much fucking better. He stuck to his first impulse: ignore the obnoxious jangle and let it go to voicemail.

Second impulse told him to turn the thing off once it had stopped, but a niggle of responsibility from some deep recess told him to nix that. On rare occasions, he did receive calls of extreme importance. If that had been one of them, he'd get a recall.

Until then, he had a vacation to start and a city to relish.

Since he'd headed straight to the nearest pub once his plane had touched down, his first thought to find a stiff drink and a ready woman and be on with it, he hadn't taken the time. In his hasty descent upon Rome's nightlife, he'd forgotten to savor the other things unique to this country that kept him coming back.

Or would soon keep him here, once he'd saved up enough to buy a small villa.

Euphoria filled him to the core, and it showed in his smooth, leisurely gait. He inhaled a deep breath, his lungs ballooning until they nearly burst, only releasing it in a strong gust once his body had absorbed everything familiar in the air. A satisfied smile curved his lips and lit his eyes – the contrast between him now and the man who, moments ago, had been daunted by a horrific display of sex astounding.

That was his favorite thing about Italy, the fresh scents of ocean air, the best goddamn authentic dishes anywhere he'd visited, and the overlay of life and earth all combined into one. It smelled raw and exhilarating, and never failed to take his troubles away.

To his immense enjoyment, as he reveled in the magnetic pull this country had on him, his phone kept silent. Anyone who really knew him knew full well he rarely ever retired before dawn – but also knew exactly what he'd likely be doing right about now.

It was probably only Walker anyway, he guessed. And given that the last time he'd seen that degenerate they'd ended up tearing a small bar in Paris, and each other, to pieces, did he really want to fucking talk to him?

Taking a fag from his personalized metal case, he slipped the stick between his lips, rolling it once as was his habit, before igniting it with his matching lighter.

His first drag eased the last morsel of tension from his post-sex rendezvous – okay, disaster – and instantly cured him of any doubts about what he chose to do some evenings.

Why should a terrible lay determine whether he tupped a hot chick if he felt the need to? The appalling behavior was solely a problem on her part – tonight being a prime example. He, a lustful, hot-blooded male, functioned just fine. The only mistake he saw was in choice, which was easy to remedy. Next time, he'd just have to take more time before making his final selection.

And of course, there would indeed be a next time; after all, from what he'd been told sex without attachments saturated his blood.

Pleased with his conclusion, likely to rarely think about it again, he kept on down the walkway and back to his waiting vehicle. But as soon as he cleared the late night crowd surrounding the row of beachside buildings, his cell rang again.

"Fuck," he grumbled around his cigarette.

The temptation to let it keep ringing again was overwhelming, knowing full well now that it _was_ important and likely bad news to boot. But in the end, that last hint of accountability etched in his inner workings that had kept him from turning the blasted thing off in the first place – created probably sometime in his stint with the Garda – kicked in and made the decision for him.

"'Allo," he drawled into the receiver, his Irish accent more pronounced than normal.

"Ah… the fucking bloke _is _still awake, eh?" a heavy Irish brogue – raspy from one too many fags, but still undeniably female – grated loudly in his ear. The familiar sound of the middle-aged woman made him smile internally. "How's the pussy around the world feeling these days?"

Tedious and much too loose, was on the tip of his tongue, but even though she had asked, she needn't know that.

"Faye, love." He chortled into the phone instead. "So nice to hear from you."

"Right, laddy," Faye Donovan replied, not even bothering to mask her acerbic tone. "And my cunt sprouted its own cock companion last night, solving all my problems."

He laughed again, recognizing that if any female was on his level, it was without a doubt Faye. Completely crass, foul-mouthed, and the kind of woman he felt had an honorary set of cajones.

"Ah… always the sweet talker, Faye. Your voice and candid talk always manages to get my blood a balmy, even at 0200. So, tell me, love, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

There was an odd intermitted silence between them, disrupted only by a rustle of paperwork heard above the static filled connection. Strange, he thought, Faye was rarely ever one to have problems finding words.

Before he could call her on it, though, she came back on the line. "How do you feel about blondes?"

He smiled, his mind traveling back to the hazy memories of his many sexual conquests – nameless faces and, in some cases, faceless bodies – but then paused uneasily as he took into account the woman he'd left minutes ago.

"Mmmm… I'd say my experiences with them have been quite mixed. Spotty at best. But, hey, you should know by now that I have no prejudice for such trivial matters. I'd stick it in just about anything that strikes my fancy at the time. Why, you gonna set me up?"

He rounded another corner – entering the dark alley he'd left his car in – finding the Saab he kept in storage while he was away unscathed, as usual. It was funny, almost like the thieves knew what would befall them if they were to even touch it.

Keys secured in his hand he approached and unlocked the sleek black sports car with a push of a button, paying little attention to what drivel Faye was spitting at him.

"… you oversexed son of a… _Men_, you ox," Faye amended frustratingly. "I'm talking about blonde _men_!"

That one word caught his ear and he choked back a full laugh. She was talking about _men_. His cocky grin faltered at her silence. She wasn't joking. The realization caused him to stutter step a few feet from his car door and the last drag of tobacco he took to catch awkwardly in his throat.

What the? He looked at the receiver incredulously. Men? Surely, she was jesting. Coughing, he dropped the used fag, perplexed over what she'd just asked.

"Whoa – ho – ho, Donovan," he rambled emphatically once he regained control. "When I said anything, I was referring to anything _female_. Bloody hell. You know I don't swing that way."

"Stuff it, you blathering idiot. I meant _you_. How do _you _feel about going blonde? Short blonde."

Looking at his light brown hair reflected in his car window, pulled back from his lean face and secured by a leather tie, he felt a strange stitch of sorrow about what she was asking.

Deep cover.

Due to him being raised in Ireland, his SIS underground op experience thus far had consisted of short ops dealing with contacts to IRA members in his homeland. Nothing like what she was asking. Covert, deep at that, meant a great deal to agents young and old.

From what he'd heard through the MI-6 grapevine, these sorts of jobs were either an agent's dream come true or his worst nightmare. He didn't know much of the latter first hand in relation to his job, but had much experience with nightmares in his real life.

Real life nightmares. He shook himself, going back on track since even thinking about that would be too much digression for his blood.

He never thought that the opportunity to go underground for an extended period would arrive so soon for him. So, until Faye had mentioned it, he hadn't known that he sort of wanted to take on the challenge. Part of him was screaming, "yes!", while the other had more questions.

His calloused fingers rubbed over the short stubble of his goatee and he sighed. So long to the man reflecting back in the tinted glass, so long to the man he knew and, surprisingly enough, had grown to respect more in his early adult years despite the degree his upbringing taught him to not.

"How blonde and how short are we talking, love?" And for how long, he wondered.

Again she was silent and he nearly went off on the tight-lipped cunt. Just get to the fucking point, you old, idiotic, half-witted…

"Does the name Julian Lazarey harden your cock much these days?"

His hand stalled mid-rub on his face, blue eyes that were hidden by brown contacts visibly widening in disbelief. He ignored her crass statement about the condition of his appendage, too overwhelmed by what she was really saying to quip back, even knowing it likely stroked her to near crest to hear him speechless.

"No," he whispered through the knot in his throat in utter disbelief. Julian?

"Ah, but yes," she intoned. "Six fellow MI-6 agents apprehended him not even an hour ago just outside of Zurich. We're holding him at one of our compounds until we can transport him to a more secured location. The pretty little fucker was all by his lonesome." She paused, then added. "No offense."

"None taken," he stated absently. This was just… God.

"The decision to send you in his place was handed down to me not even ten minutes ago, but we need your answer now. Julian Lazarey is our in to the blooming underworld."

Julian. The name itself was like an apparition; one that he'd thought was dead, buried, and long, long ago forgotten. Then again, there had always been that bit of him that felt like something was missing. A link separated.

A part of him residing within that was unreachable by all but one person. The part that one would say was the driving force in his many successes, on and off the job, and in his notoriously reckless behavior.

The same part he'd always blamed on his loveless upbringing, raised apart from his paternal side as a constant reminder that he was merely second best. Yet, he knew in the back of his mind that it was more, something more close to the heart.

"So?" Faye posed the unasked question, waiting for an answer.

"So." She wanted an answer, but a thousand questions jumbled his mind, almost not allowing him to form even that word.

Could he do this? Could he reopen the harsh wounds he'd put a shoddy salve on years ago? Could he delve into the minuscule component of him that longed to be a part of a legacy spoke about with such reverence and fear? Could he do all of this and retain his identity, his mostly honest resolve, and separate himself from the corruption, the arrogance, the filth that was included in the title?

_Could he do this_?

There was no doubt if anyone was made for this job, it was him. That wasn't even a question of ability in his mind. After all, who else could do a better job of taking over this man's life; become Julian Lazarey, until the vicious organization the young man had just begun working for was taken down?

Who knew the intricacies of the elusive prodigal son – the only _known_ heir to the Romanov Empire – better than the only person who'd shared a womb with the man for almost ten months? Even if his interaction with his older twin lacked consistency, and had always been extremely turbulent, no one else could do this.

Just like sex without attachments, this was in his blood.

But did he want to? The question reverberated in his head, tormenting and teasing him in ways that were, bizarrely, almost as exciting as foreplay with a tight, mindless, sex-bot. His body tingled over the possibilities that lay before him.

He didn't give her any sort of preamble. No "I'll do my best for my government and country". No "send me the info on the target and I'll look it over", since he and she both knew just by looking at him that he would do his job flawlessly and already had everything he needed.

The only thing Judd Lazarey, a man nicknamed "Sark" by the handful of people that worked with and knew him – including his real name and denied heritage – said to Faye Donovan before he ended the call was a resounding:

"Fuck it. I'm in."


	2. Chapter 1

I hate formatting on this site. Bah. Scenes separated by the letter "O" since symbols don't seem to be working for me.

OOOOOO

Chapter 1 –

_Seven years later_

Head slumped and hands firmly braced on the rim of the white sink, Sark expelled some of his queasiness on a shaky breath. His fingers clung so tightly to the cold porcelain, like it was the rock keeping him from sagging to the floor, that his knuckles had turned stark white.

He was physically wiped out. Emotionally, too. Almost too tired to stand, but through some act of God his legs kept. Lifting his head again, he stared impassively at his pale reflection in the much-too-small bathroom mirror, hoping for even a moment's reprieve from this bout of sickness.

Soon. The soothing feel of the eventual end was just out of reach, but he knew, as was custom after days like today, that it was only minutes away from arriving.

Tiny beads of sweat formed incessantly on his forehead in non-descript patterns and shaded his upper lip like a pearly saltlick mustache. The overlay of fresh and stale sheen only managed to heighten the lackluster effect on his pasty skin.

He'd stopped vomiting minutes ago, the lingering ache in his gut a reminder of the violent upheaval, yet it seemed that even though his stomach had completely emptied, it still wanted to clench and lurch.

Who knew? By the time Sark reached his destination, Moscow, the muscle could have turned itself completely inside out.

The four walls seemed to be gradually closing in on him. The partitions leading to the cabin of the plane inched closer and closer, making the distance between him and the wall behind him – hell, even the floor and ceiling now – smaller and smaller...

"Get it together, fuckhead," he seethed, his jaw in a perpetual clamp. "Par for the fucking course."

That's it. Get mad. It always seemed to be the best cure for any of life's side effects.

Seven years spent as Julian Lazarey should have gotten easier. Working his way up through the ranks to the director of operations of this organization, just as tenaciously as Julian would have had he been out, beget much in the way of thievery, treachery, various forms of debauchery, torture, and even the big M.

Murder.

Seven years of it and still that last one didn't sit very well with him in the end. Well, honestly, the last _two_ still turned him, or rather on occasion his stomach, out. But usually never like this.

Logically Sark should have been used to all of his duties by now, should have had a harder, biting edge to him. Hell, he should have even had the ability to detach himself completely from his duty and not have to think about who he'd harmed in the end. But, instead, each incident seemed to make it more difficult. Ethics were a bitch.

To a certain extent, he _was_ used to this life and he _did _put himself at a distance. Yet, for some reason, that didn't seem to stop the periodical sickness.

Earlier that day in Hong Kong, when he'd walked into Tyno-Chem, so confident, so sure and ready to obliterate anyone who stood in the way of him and the Rambaldi artifact he sought, it was as if he was a different person. Or, at the very least, had shut off all valves inside that led to the scraps of compassion or virtue he had left.

Oh, those feelings remained, cunningly hidden in a narrow box that had only opened a few times in years past. Usually hours post the most highly gruesome ops, when he disappeared to deal with the repercussions of what he'd had to do, was when it creaked open. And when it did, what materialized was either a blurred night of overindulgence or a bowl full of heaved up vomit and bile.

Sark jerked a paper towel out of the dispenser, briskly running the coarse material down his face to wipe away the sticky sweat and the trace of remorse that lingered. At the same time, willing away what he hoped was the rest of the sickness.

The irony that that inner box had chosen to resurface and open this time when he, himself, was stuck inside a narrow box killed him. Was hideously compounded by the fact this narrow box now smelled terribly tart. The faint scent of vomit still lingered in the stagnant air – left stuffy by a lack of circulation. If he'd had the energy, or more of an inclination for it, he might have chuckled.

But he had neither at the moment, so he attempted to freshen his pallid face and parched throat with cold water instead.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and prayed for strength – something he found he did a lot these days. In youth, he'd never been one to dabble in religious frivolities, considering them for the weaker man. Plus he lacked the patience, and the church lacked the exhilaration to tantalize an undisciplined young man the way doing something mischievous or, better yet, lascivious did.

Looking back at it now, coming up on the age of twenty-nine, maybe the church _hadn't_ lacked those things, maybe it had been that he hadn't wanted to acknowledge that there were ramifications to his actions.

Screw the maybe. He knew that was the reason, even realized he was in for a treat when karma caught up with him.

Analyzing the past and comparing it to how differently he viewed the present was much too big a task. His only concern these days was in hiding this desire he held inside to make some assertion of his ultimate good intentions.

God forbid those around him discovered the small habits he resorted to in order to keep himself safely teetered on the brink of sanity. Or the lengths he went to in order to keep the many facets of himself from warring to near Armageddon inside.

Displays of weakness, especially where the job was concerned, were strictly verboten for the man who, after a small meeting with the head of K-Directorate tomorrow, would be very well known across the board as Mr. Sark: A man who was completely devoted and would go to the extreme to further his employer's cause.

If he had anything to do with it, none of those people would ever know this part of him. The part that gave a damn about the fate of the world, the part that, even though he had to deter it as best he could, wanted the good guys to always win. Or this part of him; empty, still nauseated, and wanting nothing more to keep his head in the toilet for another solid hour.

No. He'd do whatever he needed to ensure that secret was safe until MI-6 received all the intel they needed – including shutting himself off and keeping that box of humanity secure.

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly for a last quick regroup. Flashes of the terror on Quan Li's face as Sark had cocked his semi-auto, aimed it to where it'd be fatal and fired remained, but were steadily fading. The pain, the fear. The obstinate plea for last minute salvation that had flitted through the man's eyes as the life had crept out of them...

"Sir?" the muffled voice of the co-pilot interrupted his recollection through the door. "We're preparing to land now."

Quicker than he readied his weapon, Sark watched the verve, along with the regret and doubt, disappear from his eyes, leaving his gaze wintry and hollow. It no longer stunned him how swiftly he could put the game face on.

"Thank you," Sark called out strongly, tossing the wadded towel in the trash bin. "And please do not forget to radio the tower ahead to ensure my transportation is readied. I don't want to have to go through what I did the last time I used your services."

"Of course, sir," the man offered before Sark heard him walk away.

The disruption the man had made was more than welcome. Sark had yet to slip, even around those who mattered little.

Sark emerged from the room with his aloof persona intact once again, leaving no visible hint of the near meltdown he'd just faced and conquered. Returning to the plush leather seat he'd occupied for most of the flight, adamant on showing nothing even if no one but him remained in the cabin, he awaited the plane's pending descent. His body conformed nicely to the supple mold beneath, and he allowed himself to enjoy the feat that most would consider insignificant.

Conquering the chair.

Out his window, he saw the markings of the city he neared. Hundreds of homes dotted the flatlands in even rows along narrow paved roads. He stared indifferently out at the hilly terrain rambling in the distance, trying to tether the scant remainders of the flawless op in Hong Kong in hopes of then releasing them entirely before he had to deal with the next set.

He recalled little more of the engineering building, but oddly the vision of tilting his head to the side in consideration as the blood had trickled and stained Li's shirt came in quite clear.

A part of him that he'd conveniently labeled "Julian" harbored those thoughts. The killing, all sanctioned by Faye and his other superiors, were his "twin's" expertise. And "Julian" had been morbidly fascinated by that growing blot of crimson, the light as it had distinguished in the man's eyes. But now that that part had receded, _he_, Sark, was the one left to deal with it.

The blood. All the blood.

Flashes of red – blurry, fleeting – flowing from the countless bodies left inside the building, assaulted him all at once. But thankfully the flashes, other than those about Li, weren't more than scant details.

There had been so many times when a subordinate had had to refresh his memory of an op. So many times, he'd gone through the motions of battle, of murder, of not seeing anything, just working on autopilot.

He considered it a gift, of sorts. This ability he had to plod through the sickening horrors of slaughter, when the job called for it, with no immediate damage to his psyche. Drolly, it reminded him of a tale once told to him by one of his first nanny's – the story of the Berserker. He remembered fondly the animated way she had told the legend of the Norse warriors who were known for their fury and wildness in battle.

Berserk. That word did, indeed, sum his outward behavior up quite well.

A crackle of static rang out in the silence, the pilot's voice sounding clear, bringing nary a reaction to his cool, unreadable face.

"Five minutes to touchdown, sir. Welcome to Moscow."

Sark didn't move more than to casually cross his legs after the announcement. His belongings would be gathered and carried off by the crew, such was frequently, if not always, the case. What he did do was allow that last bit of ambiguity in him over what he'd done, and what he was about to do, to finally wash away with a parting thought.

R.I.P. Quan Li, head of FTL. You were one wickedly depraved fuck anyhow.

OOOOOO

Sydney Bristow hadn't realized her mistake until it was too late.

With her life's track record, she didn't know why she had temporarily forgotten the ramifications of just one moment's ease, or God forbid, happiness. She should have remembered. Countless times before, something had always seemed to go terribly wrong if she even had the inkling to start and feel even a minute amount of contentment.

But she had, again, felt something good earlier that week.

It was a mix of situations and feelings and decisions involving a combination of people. She had been recovering from SD-6's infiltration by McKennas Cole et al. She had once again managed to retain her cover and stop the Rambaldi device from getting into the wrong hands – although SD-6 _was_ anything but the right hands. Her bruises, when wearing no cover-up, still stained her fair complexion. But all around, she was physically starting to feel better.

And emotionally, Sydney had almost soared.

Between the confidence her father instilled upon her when they'd met at the carousel, telling her to keep with her grad-school courses so she could become the kind of teacher her students would always remember, and Vaughn disclosing that she hadn't made a fool out of herself when she'd brought up the hockey game – that he too would like to get to know her on a personal level if things were different – she felt like she was floating.

Although, a small bob in her flight had occurred, of course, when Francie had found out the truth about Charlie's infidelity. But even that hadn't resonated, hadn't reminded Sydney that bad things did happen to good people, and usually at times when they felt they didn't have much of a care in the world.

For her, the chance of that happening was twofold. When a person continually endangered their life by secretly working to see the devil brought down, bad things were bound to happen.

But she still felt sky high tonight – which, ironically, she was. Suspended in mid-air with her only security being a wire that hung between two buildings. She dangled from hundreds of feet as she waited for the meeting between K-Directorate and some murderous blonde-haired man who worked for "The Man".

She was nearly silent as she crossed the thin wire and reached her destination, the one man below keeping guard of the building unaware of her presence. The fiber optic camera was in place, as was the memory card Vaughn had given her when he'd revealed his bit about things being different...

The blonde man walked into the room, introducing himself to the awaiting mini-crowd.

Mr. Sark. Director of Operations.

Chaos was a swift moving thing. Then again, if chaos happened slower, it might not be considered such since those involved would have more time to think, plan, and conclude the best remedy.

Sydney had received the confirmation from Dixon that not only were the people that Mr. Sark had propositioned for the Rambaldi manuscript members of K-Directorate – they _were_ K-Directorate.

Head of, Ilyich Ivankov, and second in command, Kessar.

She heard the gunshots and the offer restated to Kessar, and then it reigned.

Chaos.

As her foot adjusted on the building, she felt a part loosen and crumble, falling to the ground below. The next thing she heard was a muted yell and the _pop-pop-pop_ of gunfire.

Her instinct kicked into overdrive; the need to flee to safely driving her to get the fuck out of there, hopefully without getting wounded. She tried to scramble away from the window she was near, but she'd thrashed too hard in her hurry and was propelled directly in front of it. In plain view of all the members of the meeting.

She heard more shots – they seemed to be coming from all directions. Glass splintered next to her, imbedding into her arms and torso, but she barely took notice. What was happening in the meeting, and around her, was forgotten as her feet found solid wall and she dragged herself up the building.

Escape was in the air, she could smell it and feel it in her bones. She reached the roof, having removed herself from the danger with little damage. The little cuts in her sleeve and chest weren't even felt above the adrenaline she packed.

She saw two ways out of there: down through the building – not the wisest choice – or a running leap across to the building next door. The latter was, of course, the better option, even if the drop of the lowered building that stood about fifteen feet away would likely jar or even sprain her ankles.

That was nothing, she'd walked through worse.

She unhooked herself from the cable and took off. The wind blew fiercely from the high elevation and whipped her hair around in frenzy. Arms pumping, legs straining and pushing with all their might, she crossed the large distance. And she was just about to reach the raised edge of the roof when a whir of black tackled her from the side.

The force of the fall knocked the wind out of her so hard it hurt her lungs, and it seemed that the skidding across the smooth cement would never stop. A heavy figure lay on top of her, pushing her back against the cement, and making the friction between her and the surface she slid on that much more painful.

She literally felt the skin rippling and tearing under her shirt, a hellacious burn that was multitudes worse than one from carpet. Thankfully, due to her mindset and the initial numbness that coated her skin, she couldn't feel a thing.

They came to a stop mere feet away from another edge of the building, mere feet from her head being slammed into brick, and she moved through the stiffness in her back, trying to remove the weight from on top of her.

His position, and she was positive it was a man, more than dominated her. It practically consumed her. He had flattened her to the ground – body, arms and legs, all pinned under hard muscle. His breathing was as heavily labored as hers, each puff of breath like a punch to her gut. She squirmed, and shifted, and prayed... God she prayed.

But she was stuck. Her life had been looking up as well as it could considering the circumstances and she felt instantly crushed. She had more to see, more to do, so much more to say.

The pain forming in her back begged her to scream, the loud screeching banshee type. But the only thing Sydney managed when she opened her mouth was a worthless croak. Her back was on fire; wet, hot, fiercely intense fire. So much worse than a centralized bullet wound or even a dislocated limb.

Her effort to yell was fruitless as both the whipping wind and his cheek engulfed the sound. Or maybe the chunk of her hair she swallowed and choked on in the process absorbed it. Either way, he firmly pressed his face against her mouth and she tried to snap her mouth shut, her only, even if feeble, method of defense.

He pulled back just in time and her teeth forcefully clattered together. He crossed his arms over her chest, resting on his forearms, but still applying enough pressure to overpower her.

Sydney shook her hair out of her face, wanting to look the man who, if she didn't get herself out of this fix, would be her end. She cursed and her heart sank the moment she glanced into icy blue eyes.

This was no lackey she'd have the best chance of defeating. He was young, albeit not a boy. Even in the darkness, she could see the same face she had seen a good day earlier on screen at SD-6. The lack of concern on his face was similar to that horrible blankness, that utter determination she'd seen as he'd taken down Quan Li.

Sydney's eyes dared him to do his worst. Even to kill her. She didn't have the upper hand, but she had her pride and fuck if this man would take that from her too.

To her surprise, a flicker of shock bounced in his eyes. Whether it was the fact that she was conscious or that she was female wasn't clear, but whatever it was only lasted an instant before he grabbed her roughly by the collar of her shirt and yanked her up to stand.

Cold metal pressed against her temple, while his other hand held a second weapon. The second was pointed at the direction of the door for roof access – the same place she figured he had come from.

Now was her chance. Work through the pain, she told herself. She had a split second to make the decision on which method would do best to disarm him, but before she could act she heard him speak.

"If you move, I'll kill him and then you."

Her confusion only lasted a few seconds before she saw a shadow step out of the darkness. Dixon. A small sob bubbled in her throat at the sight of him, but she didn't vocalize it.

Dixon's gun was trained on Sark. Sark's aim was right back on him while his second weapon was still fixed upon her. The situation couldn't get much bleaker and she didn't dare move for Dixon's sake.

"Release her and we'll all just leave here without incident." Dixon yelled.

Sydney could feel nothing on the man behind her. No worry. No fear. His hand steadily held both guns and she could barely hear him breathe.

"I'm afraid you've mistaken this for a negotiation. You see, I have two guns – both aimed quite rightly, I may add – and you have but one. I'm the one with the advantage, so I ask the questions and determine the terms."

His cool tone, laced with his British accent, was equal to his demeanor. He didn't seem fazed over the situation. That shouldn't be surprising to her, but for some reason it was.

She saw Dixon warring with himself, his eyes subtly shifting from her to check her condition back to Sark. "What are your terms?" Dixon questioned.

Sark didn't skip a beat. "What organization do you represent?"

Dixon gritted his teeth and kept silent. Sydney held no grudge over that, it was what he had been trained to do. She just hoped he didn't end up doing anything to worsen the situation.

She heard Sark scoff, or maybe laugh bitterly, at Dixon's silence. He dug the barrel of the gun into her temple, causing her to wince as he broke the tender skin.

"The next thing hitting her skull is lightning-quick metal if you don't respond."

Indecision marked the older man's face and he swore curtly. "SD-6."

"Ah..." Sark replied knowingly. "Arvin Sloane's branch. Terrible that that cell was infiltrated and detained for that short period of time just last week. It's a shame that people feel the need to stick their noses in where they have no business. Don't you agree?"

The meaning of that wasn't lost on either Sydney or Dixon, but neither answered the question Sark didn't even expect the answer to.

"What do you want?" Dixon asked.

"I want you to relay a message to Arvin Sloane." Sark answered.

"A message...?"

The gun bit further into Sydney's temple at Dixon's interruption, and she tried to mask her cry. Dixon held up a hand in apology and let Sark continued.

"Please inform Arvin Sloane that his interference is offensive to my boss and that he will be contacted within a week with the acceptable terms to mollify this disruption."

"And her?" Dixon asked hesitantly.

Sark paused, and Sydney pictured him smirking in cocky victory over his performance. She knew the answer, as did Dixon.

"She's my employer's bargaining chip." Dixon looked distressed over the announcement and he appeared to want to object. "Consider yourself lucky, if you hadn't been with SD-6, a negotiation wouldn't have been possible."

Dixon stood there in the darkness, cold wind beating ruthlessly against his jacket. Sydney pleaded with her eyes for him to go. Save one of their lives at least, but he wouldn't budge.

"You have one minute, my friend, before I decide to rid myself of this problem and find other means to barter."

A muscle ticked angrily in Dixon's jaw, but he backed away. Only when he disappeared into the building again, did she breathe a bit easier. She could handle this. But to have both of them get injured or die so needlessly? It just didn't make sense.

Dead on her feet, she readied herself to accept her fate, knowing that until an opportunity arose she was in Sark's and "The Man's" hands. The wind picked up as they stood there in silence, his one gun still held on her, the other now somewhere behind her. She felt him rustling around, but wouldn't risk further injury to see what he was doing.

Moments later, a faint prick stabbed her arm and she knew...

Blackness overtook her mere seconds later, right after he'd let her slump to the ground. At least it took the pain away.


	3. Chapter 2

Thanks for the reviews, guys! They're always much appreciated.

OOOOOOOO

Chapter 2 –

A dull ache wrapped around her unmoving body like a downy flannel blanket. She wasn't awake, yet her mind wasn't seized by the deadening darkness of complete slumber either. The compromise was somewhere in the middle, somewhere that was black and heady and quiet – oh so quiet.

Quiet except for a faint occasional _plink _– water splattering on concrete far off in the distance. Then again, maybe the wetness was right next to her, and it was consciousness that was still far away, causing the sounds around her to mute.

The energy that had been drained in her earlier struggle and whatever drug she'd been given weighted her down. But the numbness her body experienced slowly became overpowered by something more torturous, more agonizing, as the mask that had hidden the pain from her slowly began to peel away.

She groaned as she tried to roll off her stomach to her side. The skin on her back felt raw, hot and stretched tighter than strained elastic. Well, whatever skin she had left.

Her face fell flat, right back down on the cold cement floor with a force that jarred her cheekbone. The futile attempt to get a full view of the room she was laying in had also been hampered by her limp noodle arms and weak legs, both sets not cooperating with what the gray matter requested.

Since the rest of her wasn't cooperating, she did what she could and opened her eyes. Blinking away the haze, she found herself behind rows of thick, black metal bars. A cell. Musty and dirty, the distinct scent of mold seemingly embedded in the concrete under her, maybe even the foundation of the building that encased her. If the detoxing didn't succeed in nauseating her, then that strong, pungent smell would.

She forced herself to take a deep breath through the harsh rank, and flattened her palm to the ground, pushing with all the might her body could muster. After two tries, and a nearly debilitating pain spanning the entire surface of her back, she made it.

"Fuck," she gritted in agony between clenched teeth.

An open sore on her back rubbed against the cool floor in the process of turning over, jolting her body smartly. The temperature sort of helped as a substitute coolant, but the movement chafed terribly against the seeping blisters.

Her first instinct was to hold back the tears that pooled in her eyes, to not give her captors the satisfaction of seeing her break down. But considering she had been abandoned in this damp, dark place with no means to alleviate her ailments, "fuck it" seemed the best motto.

She didn't know how long she'd cried. Only that by the time the flow had stopped, her hair and the side of her cheek were both sticky and saturated with a drying wetness.

This feeling was so familiar to her. Despair. This being on the losing end of a situation that would probably end in death – hers or someone else's. It hurt, and not just physically. Her mind itched with the remorse of things left unsaid, undone, might not ever going to be felt again.

Vaughn. They'd had no time to explore what might have been, no time to take out SD-6. Her dad. Francie and Will. Those combined stung nearly as bad as her wounded back. She didn't know what SD-6 would do, if anything, to get her back. But with each hour that passed, hope seemed to be a steadily fading beam of light in the distance.

An odd feeling, a sense that she had felt too many times, interrupted her reflection. A shiver danced along her nape and sent an awful twinge down her back.

She was being watched.

Pressing the heel of her hand to her temple, she raised up on one elbow, her head too heavy to hold straight so it lolled helplessly to the side. She squinted in the darkness for some proof – red light, actual camera – but didn't see one at first.

Only when she dropped her head back in defeat did she see it. Behind her.

Carefully turning her upper body around, she looked expectantly into the bead of red, hoping it had night vision. She pretty much knew that asking for any assistance would be useless. Yet she could try, if merely for the opportunity to get a good look at her situation.

She had to clear a squeak from her throat before she was able to make any sound. "Please," she spoke, too hoarse to even make an echo. "I need… something,"

OOOOOOOO

She had been comatose for three hours. Just like clockwork, minutes away from when the clock struck half-past one, the drug wore off.

Remarkable. He'd have to relay that confirmation to their scientists.

They'd prepared the syringe just for Sark's meeting with K-Directorate. A combination of sleep agents, painkillers, and muscle-relaxers, along with a few other pertinent, body-altering ingredients. The point of the super-sedative was to render the target unconscious long enough to safely transport them back to one of their appropriated buildings. And to leave them with a vicious withdrawal.

Seeing the deep lines of pain that were etched in her face, he knew that had worked, too.

Since the syringe had held the amount needed to promptly put a man of Comrade Kessar's size out if he hadn't accepted the one hundred million dollar offer in the short time allotted, he hadn't used the entire contents on the woman. But, thankfully, the new head of K-Directorate was intelligent and had agreed, giving Sark the option to instead use the syringe on the interloper.

When he'd tackled her on that roof, he'd seen that spitfire gleam of defiance in her eyes. The sort of look that told him if he hadn't completely subjugated her, or tore her back to shreds, he would have had a heavy fight on his hands.

Well, if he was admitting that much, maybe he needed to also disclose that he'd have probably seen a good fight even if he'd only shredded her back. Her eyes were that intense. Not to mention oddly familiar.

She moved with the grace of a beached seal, awkwardly shifting as the feeling in her limbs slowly returned. Her attempt to sit up was laughable, but for some reason he wasn't laughing. SD-6, the man had said. A group of stellar agents under the absurd assumption they were deep CIA, and had no idea who they were really working for.

Not his concern.

He saw the exact moment she realized that she was being watched. The grainy screen he watched her on picked up the tears and the shaking over an hour before, and the trying to keep some semblance of control. It also picked up her sudden stillness and the consequent scour of the dank room.

She was looking for a camera. There were five in that room, only one noticeable in the darkness. Moments passed and he thought she had given up, her head hung back in defeat, but then he saw her eyes widen.

Bingo.

The camera made her face look even more sallow than it probably was in reality. She looked ghostly and haunted, and in so much pain.

But even when she spoke – _Please, I need something_ – he didn't move an inch. Didn't quirk a brow, didn't turn his gaze from the screen in sympathy. One never knows when one's being watched, he recited in his head.

Sark just stood there in the control room, as aloof as he had been for the past three hours, and watched the woman squirm. More or less, until breakfast, it was what he had been told to do.

His only reassurance lay in the knowledge that Khasinau would be calling soon. Even if the Director of Operations, Sark, would be the one left to deal with the prisoner in the end, if it came to that, his reassurance lay knowing that at least before then he'd know if he had the permission to spottily respond to her plea.

After all, even though she was working for the wrong side, like everyone thought he was, she was still a human being.

OOOOOOOO

The burn in Sydney's back flamed even stronger than before. Whatever she had been injected with had completely exhausted her body. She was doubly uncomfortable now that the grime and dust inside the cell had delved and rapidly fermented into her gaping sores, causing a terrible itch.

One bonus was that she did have full movement of her hands and legs now, but she didn't dare touch the damage back there for risk of further infection. Who knew when, or if, she'd have the opportunity to clean it? So she lay on her stomach, arms crossed under her for her head to rest on, watching beyond the bars for any sign of movement.

Her request for help had gone unseen or heard, or had been purposely ignored. Most likely the latter. Either way, no one had bothered to leave her with even so much as a bottle of water. Which, she handled fine. Along with the pain that had turned into sadness, the sadness that had morphed into further despondency, to now – acceptance. She'd handled the changes, dehydration as well, as best she could considering, but wondered for a moment what would come after acceptance?

Sydney had no concept of time still. The black cell offered no outdoor source to give signs that the sun had risen or was on the brink of. She had fallen into a fitful sleep again, though. One filled with flickering rainbow holograms and devilish faces that left her with a further sense of sorrow.

Her watch and the few other belongings she had dared to bring with her had gone missing sometime before she woke. They mattered little now. Her throat – parched and itchy – was one of her main bothers. Desperate for even a moment's relief, she was almost tempted to find the source of that dropping water.

She was startled by the clanking of a metal door closing somewhere far off in the distance of the lower level. The sound practically echoed in the silence, filling her with immense trepidation.

This was it, she convinced herself. Either she was going home under negotiated terms, already marked for death, or neither but worse – someone was fixing to make her hurt worse than she already did.

Even thinking that Sloane would waste the energy, or hand over whatever precious resource or object Sark's employer sought in exchange for her return was pointless. SD-6's agenda was its own – agent status be damned. The ruthlessness of her own employer had been proven the day that she'd found Danny in their bathtub. She didn't want to think what would happen once her visitor came down the hall.

Footsteps echoed like small explosions in the large room, each one seeming as loud as her thundering heart. She moved awkwardly to stand, not wanting her captor to see her in this submissive position, reaching her feet in time to see Sark stop in front of her.

A challenge hung between them as they stared at each other. He had won the first round by bringing her here, but Sydney wanted to show him that if the chance came, round two would show a different victor.

In his hand was a tray holding bottled water, a cloth, and a croissant with some sort of deli meat inside. Just seeing the snack made her stomach grumble, and in the silence, the sound was shattering. Her cheeks nearly flamed over her uncontrollable weakness.

He'd changed from the taupe suit he'd worn earlier into black casual slacks with a matching crew neck sweater and looked well rested, clean, even refreshed. At that moment, she hated him with the same vigor as she felt her hunger.

"I see that you're awake," he announced.

If possible, that feeling grew. Substantially.

"For hours now," Sydney replied testily. "Was that something you discovered while watching from your surveillance room or did you just come to that brilliant conclusion?"

He stood, appearing almost lifeless, his expression unfathomable. Controlled and remote. How very British, she thought. Even when she tried to take a jibe at him, he had a cultured air about him.

"Your back just beginning to itch?" he asked coolly.

No, she loathed him.

Too bone tired to spew the verbal tongue-lashing that immediately came to mind, Sydney stayed silent. It didn't matter. She figured he'd fill the quiet between them anyhow.

Sark lifted the latch for the small rectangular door in the bottom border of the servile quarters, sliding the tray for her to take. She eyed him warily as she did, moving back to the center of the cell as he returned the lock.

"My employer will arrive tonight and hopes to begin negotiations with your Arvin Sloane immediately following. Depending on how forthcoming your superior is, this may be over with by tomorrow morning."

Sydney laughed, a bitter, bitter sound, even to her own ears. "If you think I'm okay with being your employer's prize quarry in this, you're sorely mistaken."

"And if you think that anyone on this end cares if you're okay with this, then you're in for a major disappointment," he replied patronizingly. "You're just a small bauble in a much larger collection of priceless jewels."

Sydney would never admit outwardly how much that statement injured her pride. The truth did hurt rather badly. It took all her saved energy to not blanch or even flinch at his cruelty. Honest cruelty.

"Our protocol calls for supper in five hours," Sark informed as he began to languidly travel back down the hallway.

"There's protocol for this sort of thing?" she asked incredulously.

He ignored her and continued, "Besides nourishment, I've been permitted to allow you antiseptic and a wrap."

"Wait." Her jaw went slack at his words, and she found herself at the bars again, keeping pace with him until she couldn't any further. "Five hours? Why not now?"

Sark turned to her and she watched the corner of his mouth twitch up. It wasn't a smile, looked a touch too feral to be called one. She supposed it was meant to chill her, but it only managed to irk her further.

He was quiet for a beat before replying with a single word. "Protocol."

OOOOOOOO

Sark reclined in the stiff side chair, fingers loosely clasped behind his head, his feet propped up on the counter a few inches from the monitor. He was tired, but even those who worked closely with him wouldn't be able to tell. It had taken much practice to live off no sleep and much caffeine, but he considered himself a veteran at it now.

Besides the one man who'd taken his place for the hour Sark took earlier that day to shower and change his clothing, and the twenty minutes or so it took to deliver their "guest" breakfast, he'd been the only person in the small room.

Khasinau had told him to ensure the woman remained down in the basement until his arrival that evening, but even Sark admitted the man probably hadn't meant to this extent. Denying himself sleep, wasting his resourcefulness on such a simple job.

Delegation always came easy to Sark, especially when it came to the menial tasks, but for some reason he couldn't offer this to any other man.

There was something about this woman. Something familiar. His heightened instinct was practically screaming it.

He had to admit that he admired her determination. At breakfast, when he'd neared her cell, he'd witnessed the last few awkward moments of her standing up to face him – standing to face him when many men and a few women before her couldn't even bear to even reach a sitting position. And most of their injuries had been less severe. It was a behavior that he could see himself displaying in the face of the enemy.

Hell, at times he had.

He absently straightened his shoulders. That was long ago, and this was now.

After fully inspecting the sandwich he'd brought her, the woman had finally deemed it edible and ate it with a hint of desperation. She also drank the bottle of water with the same voracity.

He shrugged it off. Again, not his concern.

Sark took a glance at his watch just as the door opened behind him. He watched as Alexander walked in and immediately strolled to look at the surveillance screen.

It was barely noticeable, hell if he hadn't known the man for nearly six years he wouldn't have seen it, but a hint of surprise registered in Khasinau's eyes as he looked at the figure pacing on the screen. He knew the woman.

A few beats of silence passed and were interrupted by his curt, accented voice. "She'll want her moved," he said, a bit pensively. "Take her to the villa in France. Make sure security is doubled."

Sark was never one to question orders, but this time he was tempted to. Doubled security? In a compound that was so tight even he would have had some difficulty breaking into or, if needed, out of?

But he simply nodded in response and watched as Khasinau took one last lingering glance at the screen before leaving the room.

Strange, he thought as he sat again, eyes drawn to the screen and the woman who now more than piqued his interest. He'd have to find out more somehow. But no one watching would see that speculation his eyes.

OOOOOOOO

Something was happening.

She had barely begun to enjoy the feel of the antiseptic and the fact that her wounds had been bandaged when she heard the same sound of the door opening in the distance. But instead of one set of footsteps, it sounded like half a dozen.

She uncrossed her legs to stand, unconsciously backing up a few steps just as a group of men in dark fatigues lined up outside her cell. She recognized that pale face, that blonde hair, those startling blue eyes that led the pack, but all other faces were unfamiliar.

Her thoughts were scrambled, but she tried to think of something witty to say. Taking a long, drawn out look at the gun that was pointed at her, she spoke the first thing that came to mind.

"I guess this means I've overstayed my welcome."

She thought she caught the corner of his mouth turning up slightly before the shot rang out and the small dart was sticking out just below her collarbone, but as darkness came once again, she couldn't be sure.


End file.
